


Arms Tonight

by LadyRomanovich



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Blood, Dream Smp, Ghostbur, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, ig?, not really graphic tho, this is my first fic lol dont bully me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:26:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27661319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRomanovich/pseuds/LadyRomanovich
Summary: Wilbur was certainly dead however, his lungs did not draw air and his heart ceased to beat its usual erratic rhythm, then why was he still here in L'manberg?His cause of death was still a mystery to him or the whether he ought to remember in the first place.ghostburrrrrrrr
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 84





	Arms Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Shit and probably a bit boring

He had often thought of his death as a necessity, the calming silence after the crescendo of his now complete symphony. L'manberg would no longer be his concern, just an ember of a great nation that once burnt brightly within the hearts of its inhabitants, Wilbur bestowed the burden of presidency to Tubbo, a bright lad who accepted the role with a bright smile and a great many ambitions regarding the future he could provide the war torn nation, even so, the final laugh belonged to Wilbur, having left the boy with leadership of a ruined aftermath - there was no flourishing, free country they had fought tirelessly for but an uninhabitable wasteland. His death would be the falling of the curtain over all he had carefully put into play, the spectacular finale everyone was waiting for.

Except it wasn't. Wilbur was certainly dead however, his lungs did not draw air and his heart ceased to beat its usual erratic rhythm, clouded eyes could not behold the expressions of those around his lifeless corpse; Phils deep-rooted regret, Dreams utter indifference along with Tommys face merely scrunched in anger. Wilbur was gone- correction, _should be gone._

Unexpectedly he roused, beholding no such divine eye of God or angelic being, no spiraling horns accompanied with pitchforks that would seal his fate countless time. The ground on which he lay was bitterly cold, a bed of soil numbing his skin to the bone beneath, Digging his nails into the haphazard pile of dirt for any form on leverage, he noticed something amiss. His garb had changed, both the brown leather coat and the once white shirt caked with blood and grime had been replaced with a pale yellow sweater, he fondly observed the vast number of tiny stitches keeping the garment together. As his eyes followed down the creases of his sleeve past the cuffs, Wilbur flinched, dazed.

A sickly grey enveloped his arms: a perpetual shade lingered on his skin that the seeming glow of light couldn't penetrate, nothing could equal his horror upon realisation, his skin was a deep grey, bordering on translucent furthermore, his attire presented no sign of filth despite its exposure to the soil on which he woke. Trembling excessively, he came to terms with the main problem being that he woke at all. He had died, passed on to the other side. 

But here he was, now standing in the rouble and rust of the country he forsaken; left in the form of a haunting spirit with no heavenly garden or fires of hell to soothe his worries.

Huh.

Ghostbur has a certain ring to it he supposes.

It took days of bitterly irksome preparation before he could confront the people he left in wretchedness, execution of the task was simple enough by itself, Wilbur would manifest himself in all his ghostly glory to each citizen of L'manberg and recollect the events taken place after his passing. However he appeared to Tommy last of all, taking advantage of the young boys ignorance and messing with him in subtle ways, re-arranging the disks he held dear and stealing small knick-knacks from right under his nose. To Wilburs amusement he had taken his small prank to the point of Tommy having stationed crosses along with religious ornaments around his home (which Wilbur would promptly steal).

This charade continued for roughly a week until Tommy caught a conversation in passing about the miracle of Wilburs return as a ghost, on realising this information the boy grew vexed, though attempted to supress the outrage within him about the innocent prank being played on him. Following that instance, a note had been left on Tommys desk, the hastily ripped parchment was engraved with the words _"Fuck you, die twice -Tommy"_. His brother always had such a way with words, don't you think? 

Most had told him they preferred him in death, more consolable they said, the softness of his gaze had been restored no longer plagued by that glint of madness or sneer of harsh command. Through death he carried no ill-will, held no hate to those who abhor him yet also carried a great lack of memories regarding the events of his death.

All the factors combined had led him to his present anguish, clawing at his scalp in desperation hoping- praying as brown strands get caught on trembling fingers so would some small tidbits of how he died. It was the not knowing that agitated him or the insecurity of whether it would be better if he didn't know, the utter possibility of having sought to forget. He cursed himself, retreating his hands from his abused scalp, Wilburs body felt cold, numbingly so with a sharp pain in his abdomen obscuring his senses. Breathing deeply he examined his sweater as the searing pain increased, a pool of crimson stained the fabric, overriding all inestimable calming qualities it held. Blood. His own blood.

Icy legs cracked under the pressure of his affliction, grasping, clutching, squeezing at the formed wound on his abdomen to no avail, the blood gushed unmoving. He collapsed harshly, blood and mud pooling around him, stained hand barely breaking the unforeseen fall. A piercing scream left him, shrill and hoarse, he shut his eyes tightly in a futile attempt to escape and-.

And nothing. The pain vanished, the wetness on his hands and chest absent.

Opening one eye cautiously, followed by the next, he observed a room that at first glance appeared free of human inhabitation, dust-covered cobwebs festered at every corner and at the wooden supports on the ceiling, the supports connected down onto hard rock walls inconsistently decorated with wooden signs. The words etched onto the signs were jagged, an uncaring madness clear in their creation, the familiarity of which made his heart sink and his chest tighten. He began to envy the eye he kept shut at first. It was that fucking room, a crudely crafted oak button confirmed his nightmare, agonised by the possibility of this being his reality he averted his gaze hastily. Sudden sounds of wood against stone caught his attention, startling echoes of the dreadful sound leading to the individual now standing in front of him, both only separated by a three meter gap.

The sight of the green-white striped hat did not work to dispel his worries as it had when he was but a pure child free from corruptions of the mind, his expression was masked in a deep shadow and his features were a blank, unreadable. Physique adorned with oriental black and green colours, a Japanese style covering the wide sleeves of which were embroidered with neat white diamond patterns also hid within them, the hilt of a sharp blade. Said blade was pointed towards Wilbur, the enchantment rippling through its diamond core visible even to the dim light of the sorrowful room.

Accordingly the man- Philza, his father as he recognised him, the same cheery man who had raised him from boyhood was now raising a sword towards him, taking on an attacking stance while briefly stepping towards him.

Oh. This must be how he died. It comes as no surprise, he could've put two and two together yet he still felt a shiver run down his entire being, reminders of the scorching pain he previously endured caused him to pace back hurriedly. He readied himself to speak despite the fearful dryness coating his mouth.

"Hey, no hard feelings, right Dad? We can talk about this peacefully like you always taught me to." he gestured in a vain attempt to feign confidence.

Wilbur was once eloquent an persuasive, his words holding power over the latter mans heart, be that as it may Phil showed no sign of retreat. Phil stepped forward, Wilbur stepped back.

"Please! I- I'm sorry! I didn't know it would lead to this." Voice wavering similar to that when he was a kid, unable to meet his fathers eye after being told off, dreading punishment for his childish misdeeds.

One step forward, another step back.

"I'll atone for it! Blowing up L'manberg! Dad, please, don't hurt me..." He trailed off as his back hit the wall, the hung wooden sign behind him digging into the flesh of his back. After so long a period of melancholia his pleas become hysteric, hinting towards his inevitable salvation and his grief regarding his former nation. Tears pricked in the corner of his eyes and his throat burns from the incessant mumbles of "Please" and "Don't". 

A final step forward, no steps back.

The figure of his father was now before him, blocking all other views, Wilbur could no longer stand to look at him, instead closing his eyes as he did prior to finding himself in the accursed room.

 _"Will?"_ A soft voice called out, laced with a tender concern. He was taken aback, the horrid atmosphere shattered yet his heart still beat ferociously in his chest.

Heavy eyelids shielded his perspective, he felt no pain or sudden ache but flinched when a sudden pressure made itself known on his shoulder, a hand, vacant of of any sign of murderous intent or fiendish malice. He evened his breathing to the best of his ability and opened his murky eyes to the world once more.

The blade had made its way through his chest, his pulse beat so quickly, feeling the palpitation of every artery. Pools of crimson dimmed his vision, a startled yell echoed through the stone walls of him tomb as the sharp scent of copper assaulted his nose. His eyes were of a scared animal, darting wildly before fixing themselves onto the face of their maker. Wide eyes and a toothy grin, any previous chance for guilt or remorse had been exiled from his fathers mind. He fell to his knees, sword still buried deep into his shuddering form, an image of Phil burned into his brain with breathless eagerness to satisfy his own blood lust-

"Snap out of it, damn it!" Dismally he snapped out of this stupor, for what seemed the millionth time, though he continued pleading for his life in the same manner for some time, sinking to the ground like a pebble cast aside to the vast darkness of the sea. His fathers face did not move him as it once had, small blond hairs framed his face, a portrait of scrutiny, while a small frown wrinkled his lips; one pale hand was stretched out, seemingly to sympathise in a sheltered fashion.

Ah! This was his real fate, subjected to an infinite spree of deaths by Phils hands, those who raised and cared for him. The thought was almost enough to make him weep like an overdramatic Victorian boy in the late 1700s. Almost. Even when presented with an eternal cycle of re-living the memory that ought to stay forgotten, no one needs to put on that much of a theatrical spectacle. No one.

Phil approached warily, black haori blown back by the breeze revealing a olive green layer of clothing, its original freshness gone soon to be stained with ribbons of Wilburs blood. foreboding, he thought in terror: that is how he had interpreted his situation.

Before he could comprehend, he was embraced firmly, protectively even, finding himself paralyzed, stiff as wood, stiff as those mocking signs carved with the tune of "My L'manberg". Despite bracing himself for impact, no piercing sound of a blade could be heard, the warmth of the shorter body latching onto his was peaceful unlike the heat of oozing blood that previously sprayed from the gape in his abdomen. In his delusions he had not looked beyond Phils stature thus when a serene sky and verdant hills splayed before him he did not dare to return to the image of the button room, L'manberg, his original resting place. Pausing his feverish spew of inarticulate pleas for the life he had already once lost, he muttered a swansong of "Sorry.".

And with a gentle, fresh voice that sounded like a harp-string, Phil spoke clearly, "It's okay, you're safe Will. Calm down, I'm unarmed."

The built up panic in his veins had washed over, Wilbur leaned his head on Phils shoulder, forehead pressing into the raven fabric like a tired child withdrawn from the safe confides of sleep.

"I regret it with every breath i take y'know." He continued, rubbing small circular motions along Wilburs back, a method he used on all his sons when they were young, "No father wants to kill their own son."

"But you did anyway." Muffled words bringing with them the image of Phil from the dark room, the maddening grin and drawn sword- he banished the perception from his head, it still lingering like a parasitic organism. 

The circle motions along his back stopped hesitantly before continuing, Wilbur meant no malice in his words or perhaps that was a lie, an unconscious lie. Peace was something he had become accustomed to, he was unable to die twice (much to Tommys dismay), holding a grudge would only make him equal to those stereotypical ghosts in low budget horror movies. Gradually he smiled, picturing a reality where he had chosen to appear to Tommy in a similar way as to the plot of "The Ring", that would condemn the younger boy to restless nights, while Wilbur would pity his misfortune considerable, a majority part of him found the idea entertaining.

"You don't want to talk about this right now, do you?" Once again the silence was gone, taking with it a vision of himself crawling out of a static TV screen. "We can always speak at a later time."

Wilbur stayed silent, throat still overcome with a raw sting, Instead he traced the vegetation of his surrounding atmosphere. Grass had already begun its slow growth along the refined edges of the crater, heavy spruce logs towered far above the hills to the broad horizon - supporting multitudes of platforms and those who laboured tirelessly rebuilt their homes above the demolition, it was a showing of pride, prowess even when the rays of despair illuminate the lands below their very feet. Verities of pulley systems and lifts had been dispersed across numerous wooden platforms, from afar he witnessed Niki wiping sweat forming on her brow, her arms gripping the ropes of the pulley tightly with the aid of Eret, the supplies; some recently chopped lumber along with neat piles of coal that sway lightly at ever instance of the pairs grip slipping off the rope.

"Phil?" He called out, the other was busy humming a soothing tune that was reminiscent of the bleach opening.

Seeming glad Wilbur was conversing again, the other man spoke, "Yeah, son?"

"Do you think we should help them out- Eret and Niki, i mean."

"Hm, I think they'd appreciate that."

**Author's Note:**

> i fucking hate lil Victorian boys


End file.
